


upon your blade (a kiss)

by hoppnhorn



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Gladiator Billy Hargrove, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Physical Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 20:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18630367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/pseuds/hoppnhorn
Summary: "If this is another dream, fuck off." The gravelly voice of the Brute doesn't echo in the small room and Steven hides a shiver as the deep bass slides down his spine. His figure is easy to spot, crouched against a wall with his head tipped back against the stone."Not a dream." Steven murmurs, setting the tray of food on the small stool in the corner."Then why do you smell like a feast?" The head lifts, eyes bright and blue even in the dark, and he stares. "Rich boy, do you have a cunt made of ham?"





	upon your blade (a kiss)

Steven usually doesn’t have much reason to confront his father -- generally he avoids it. His father is as agreeable a man as the summer heat in Rome and, until now, Steven never felt the need to tempt fate and put himself in his father’s path. 

And yet.

Today, he stands in the atrium, watching his father faun over his mother as she’s dressed in the newest fashions from town. Something sheer and a little too  _ young _ if Steven had anything to say about it. But he doesn’t. He waits as his father kisses his mother’s cheeks, whispers words of endearment into her ears. 

His father’s one positive quality has always been thus: his undying obsession with his wife. 

“Father.” Steven repeats, a third time in a minute’s time, and his mother’s bright hazel eyes find his. She tuts at her husband’s attention, nods towards her son, and with a sigh Steven is acknowledged. 

A grimace of irritation already in place.

“Speak, boy. Quickly.” 

Steven tries not to dwell on the way his father’s hands have drifted to his mother’s waist. Clutched her hips. 

“Your Arms Master is starving the Brute.” He says bluntly, lifting his head for a fight. He knows he’ll find one, especially when the man in question -- his father’s trusted trainer and employee -- stands not ten feet from them. His father glances at Titus momentarily, as if to find a confirmation of sorts in the man’s stiff nod, then looks back at Steven. With a shrug, he hides genuine surprise. 

“Titus is the master over the gladiators, he punishes them as he sees fit.”

“He’s  _ killing _ him.” Steven barks, louder than he should, and a few of his mother’s servants startle, their delicate features wide in shock at his booming voice. 

No one expects it from him, because he never has anything to be angry about. Not until recently. Until  _ him _ . 

“The Brute attacked three guards and nearly killed one of them.” Titus interrupts, stepping from the side of the room until his body almost eclipses Steven’s view of his father.  _ Bring the argument to me _ , his posture says. But Steven knows Titus would only threaten to have him whipped, then ignore his pleas. But this, this audience in front of his father and mother, is something Titus can’t claim to forget. He can’t threaten Steven here. 

His mother would faint first.

“He is your best fighter, your top gladiator, and it’s been four days since he’s been  _ fed _ .” Steven holds his voice steady, tries not to think of the state of the Brute when he’d visited earlier that same day. 

If only he hadn’t been gone for three days in Rome. If only he’d stopped and warned the Brute of his absence. 

“He will die in any fight without his strength, and all of his natural talent will be wasted.” Stepping around Titus’s tall figure, Steven fixes his gaze on his father, prays his words drive his point home. “Your  _ investment  _ will have been wasted.” 

“He needs to learn  _ discipline _ .” Titus bellows, but Steven feels a tremor of pride when his father’s brow arches. 

Discipline doesn’t outweigh wasting money. It didn’t with anything in Steven’s upbringing. 

Why would it matter in the training of a fighter?

“If he can best your  _ guards _ , Titus, maybe it is they who lack discipline.” His father states coldly. “I don’t want him going another day without a meal, is that understood?” 

Steven tries not to smile when Titus ducks his chin, gives his father a quiet phrase of acknowledgement and obedience.  _ Good dog _ , he wants to snarl at the idiot. 

“I have the cooks already preparing something.” He says instead, smiling gently, the way his mother does as she steps forward, now that the tension has bled from the conversation. She cups his face in both hands, strokes his skin with her thumbs. 

“My sweet child, worrying about gladiators. Just like you did as a boy.” 

Yes, he thinks, smiling softly. Yes, he worries. But  _ not  _ like he did as a boy. He doesn’t weep uselessly at the chained men being led into the arena to fight. He doesn’t cry over the lions they send in to butcher alongside them. This isn’t the delicate sensitivity of a boy. 

If only either of his parents truly knew him. 

  
  


The men in the training barracks chatter and call at him through their doors as he passes, which is normal. Except today he doesn’t hold his head high and show them no fear. Steven moves with urgency towards one cell in particular. One of the smaller rooms, nearly a closet. It opens easily with the use of the keys tied to his waist and Steven slips inside quietly. 

Tries not to fuss when his eyes adjust to the dark. 

“If this is another dream, fuck off.” The gravelly voice of the Brute doesn’t echo in the small room and Steven hides a shiver as the deep bass slides down his spine. His figure is easy to spot, crouched against a wall with his head tipped back against the stone. 

“Not a dream.” Steven murmurs, setting the tray of food on the small stool in the corner.

“Then why do you smell like a feast?” The head lifts, eyes bright and blue even in the dark, and he stares. “Rich boy, do you have a cunt made of ham?” 

“Wrong on both counts.” Steven swallows a chuckle. The Brute, known for his strength, is also known for his lack of manners. “I have roast pork, bread, some broth—”

Before he can finish listing his offerings, the man slumped against the corner is across the room like lightning, ripping meat from the tray and stuffing his mouth full. He gobbles it with loud moans, his teeth flashing and lips smacking. Steven smiles to himself, pours water into a cup. 

“And I can bring you more if this isn’t enough.” He adds. 

Those eyes find him, latch on despite the ripping of meat and frantic chewing. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t intervene earlier.” Steven continues. Settling down on the dirt floor, he crosses his legs and watches. “I was away and when I got back, I heard some guards laughing…” The Brute growls and Steven flinches. “I shouldn’t have stayed in town so long.” 

“Every fine prince needs to dip his prick.” The Brute spits between mouthfuls. And even though his face holds no anger, no  _ grudge _ , Steven feels guilty all the same. 

“It wasn’t that kind of trip.” He mutters. His engagement had been called off long ago, after his fiancee had found better prospects in a politician’s son and not the son of a wealthy businessman. The world had felt so cold after Nancy’s abrupt change of affection. But then his father had started a new venture.

He’d purchased gladiators and gave Steven charge of the investment. 

“That’s all the city is good for.” The Brute murmurs, slowing as he swallows water, groans his appreciation. “Whores of all trades.” 

“Does that mean you didn’t live in the city?” Steven asks. The Brute sits silently for a moment and Steven feels fear for the first time since he’d entered the room. This unspoken truce between them is gossamer thin, fragile to the slightest pressure. There are rules. 

Don’t call him brute. Don’t insult his pride. Don’t ask about his past. 

Yet the man doesn’t answer, or do much more than chew as he rips at bread. Steven swallows when the Brute swallows, mirrors his actions as if they were sharing a meal and not huddling in the dirt. 

“No.” The man finally grunts. With a long breath, he reaches for the water, sips quietly. “My mother raised me in the country.” 

Steven smiles, thinking of the country. The long, rolling hills and high grasses. The smell of sweet air and crisp water. The ocean calling from the distance.

“That sounds wonderful.” He comments. “I’ve only ever been to the country to get to another city.” The moment the words leave his lips, he feels foolish. But the Brute doesn’t do much except shrug. 

“Then you haven’t been to the country.” Dipping bread into the bowl of broth, he slurps and chews and Steven can’t help but smile. 

“Maybe one day you can show me.” 

The room goes absolutely still as the man before him stops, bread between his fingers. Broth on his chin. When he sets the food down, wipes his face, it’s done with calm calculation. 

“What do you want?” The Brute asks softly, unnervingly quiet despite his reputation otherwise. 

“I just meant—”

“For the food.” The man clarifies. “What do you want in exchange?” 

And for a moment, Steven doesn’t understand. But then he sees the way the Brute’s eyes are lowered, shameful, like he’s made a mistake. Like he’s afraid. And heat floods Steven’s face. 

“Nothing.” He murmurs. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” 

Wouldn’t  _ degrade _ him any further than his family already has. He knows what some masters do to their best fighters. What they make them submit to, just for the thrill of conquering someone mightier than most. 

What those weak men don’t see is these men, their gladiators, are already conquered. 

He can see it in the Brute’s eyes when he finally returns his gaze. 

“Then why help me?” 

  
  


Titus slaps him in the public of the courtyard a week later, after the Brute bests three slaves in a quick fight and Steven smiles proudly from the sidelines. He makes a brief comment about how  _ feeding _ him might have something to do with his sudden ability to  _ fight _ . 

And Titus brings his palm across his face so suddenly, so  _ harshly _ , the whole yard comes to a stop to see. 

Steven simply holds a hand to his face, prays for the throbbing in his jaw to subside before his eye begins to water from the pain. He’s been slapped before, by the same man, but this feels infinitely worse somehow. 

Because he can feel the Brute watching.

“When I need the opinion of a disrespectful  _ cunt _ , I’ll ask for it.” Titus hisses into his ear, private enough that no one would be able to recount the slur to anyone of importance. 

But not privately enough that everyone doesn’t know he’d said  _ something _ . 

  
  


He doesn’t bruise, then again he never  _ does _ . 

  
  


“Really, Steven. You spend too much time with those...animals.” His mother remarks one morning, reclined during breakfast as she nibbles on a crust of bread. Something smeared with butter and tart berries. He pops another grape between his teeth, relishes the fresh crunch of its skin before he chews it to pulp and lets it slide down his throat. 

“It’s my work, mother.” He says gently, knowing all too well how easily his mother’s mood may change. One comment could send her into a spiral of hysterical nonsense. Worrying over his health. Worrying over his lack of wife or children. 

Thinking she’ll  _ die _ before she sees her grandchildren. 

“Your father is one of the more successful men in this city and he still manages to spend time with his  _ family _ .”

His father raises a cup of wine, all too happy to accept the praise of his wife. 

“Nothing could drag me away from you, my darling.” He cooes, and Steven rolls his eyes as he parents meet in a hungry kiss. 

“It’s a wonder I don’t have  _ siblings _ .” He murmurs to no one in particular, swallowing a large mouthful of wine. “I want to see this first round of fighters do well in the city, mother.” He says louder, interrupting his father’s hands from progressing down the line of his mother’s stomach. She grins at Steven with a glint in her eye that says he should excuse himself soon, if not  _ now _ . 

“I’m sure you can leave most of the work to Titus.” She says pleasantly while his father hums his agreement over the rim of his cup. “No need to get your hands dirty, my love.” 

“Titus is a shriveled up  _ crab _ .” Steven grumbles. And his father snorts. 

  
  


He finds the Brute a bedroll, one that won’t be missed in the main house. It’s nothing more than a few scraps of fabric to cover the dirt floor, but it’s better than, well. A dirty floor for a bed.

There’s little by way of thanks exchanged, but Steven knows the Brute will use it. Will be grateful when the sun sets and the ground is cold. 

“William.” He says instead, and Steven arches a brow. 

“What?” 

“My name.” William breathes in the quiet of the small cell. “It’s William.” 

  
  


When Steven requests bedrolls for all the men, to build loyalty, and motivation, Titus hits him in the gut. 

And William’s bedroll goes missing. 

  
  


“You lied, before.” William says a few days later, when they’re alone, sitting in the common grounds where Steven instructs broth to be served. Bread is passed out as well, but the men nibble at it skeptically. Like they’d never anticipated their food would improve. That it must be a trick. That something is expected in return.

Only William knows that there’s nothing to fear, so he digs straight in, chewing loudly like he always does. Even when Steven grimaces.

“What?” He asks, sharing in the meal with a slice of bread, nibbling politely with all the men around him watching.

“You lied when you said you didn’t want anything.” 

It’s startling, the statement, and Steven stumbles over his words. Tries to come up with something. 

“I don’t—”

“You want to be free.” William says, eyes suddenly cast down to his broth, which he slurps from the rim of the bowl. “I know what that’s like.” He adds with a smirk. 

“But I  _ am  _ free.” Steven scoffs, under his breath so no one can  _ hear _ the way his voice lilts with uncertainty. 

“Sure.” William rebuts with a shrug. “But if you thought some food and smiling would get me to break that fucker’s neck, you thought wrong.” He grunts. Steven stares, his heart racing in his chest as William chews his bread, lips wet with soup. “Won’t do it. Not even for you, pretty boy.”

“I don’t want anything from you.” Steven repeats, his pulse on his tongue, weighing heavy. 

Williams chews. 

But never brings it up again.

  
  


The first fight comes without warning. The Wheelers come to visit, flaunting the fact that Nancy is newly wed and on the arm of Jonathan, the son of a senator, when they trapse through the house. Steven’s father doesn’t wear his jealousy, or frustration, well -- so it’s his mother that comes up with the idea. 

A fight, in honor of the new couple. 

Of course, no one could say no to the request without directly  _ slighting _ the family and creating a scene. So the fighters are all lined up in the courtyard. 

The men all wait. 

And Nancy, the woman Steven once thought would be the love of his life, walks with Jonathan down the line.

She stops in front of William and her gaze lingers, fluttering over his golden skin and dirty blond curls. His face and chest are dusted in it, unshaved from the lack of time for preparation. 

In front of a crowd, William would glow from oils, shaved smooth and bare for the world to admire the muscles over every inch of him. 

“He’s good.” Nancy chirps, tucking her face into Jonathan’s shoulder. 

“That one is called the Brute.” Titus says from behind them all, and the crack of a whip sounds as he hones in on William. 

Steven flushes with pride when his finest fighter barely flinches, even though his skin opens across his left shoulder. 

“Thank the lady for selecting you, Brute.” Titus barks. 

William’s eyes find Steven and he grinds down on his jaw. 

_ Not even for you, pretty boy _ . 

As Titus moves to whip William a second time, Nancy raises a small hand. 

“Whip him again and he’ll be weakened.” She states crisply and Titus stills. “Besides, his thanks is unnecessary.” 

Steven hides a grin behind his palm, but blue eyes still see.

  
  


Jonathan selects Ructus, a large man, but a slow one. One that tires within minutes of William’s circling. His constant ducking and weaving. William provokes him easily, taunts and teases as if playing it out for the sport of it. The hunger of it. Gets the larger man snarling and snapping like a dog. A beast, lusting for the kill. 

Steven’s skin is cold as he watches, despite the sun beaming down on the courtyard. Every move of William’s feet, every twitch of his body, Steven holds his breath. 

As a boy, gladiator fights were a thing of terror. Watching men battle for their lives, yet their bodies told a story of an endless fight. One that wouldn’t end with a victory in a match. They bore scars and wounds and parts of their bodies may be missing entirely. They weren’t heroes to him, unlike his friends. He didn’t cheer at their demise, or their triumph. To be a gladiator was a sad inevitable fate that would always arrive.

Despite all this, watching William makes Steven realize, he  _ does  _ want something. 

He wants William to  _ win _ . 

Which he does, spectacularly. In a move that Steven nearly misses, William catches Ructus under the jaw with the tip of his blade and the man’s artery opens in a hot spray of red. Some of the blood makes it to the sandals on Steven’s feet. 

As the others cheer, Steven could only stare at William’s heaving chest.

  
  


Water is drawn in one of the servant baths with oils and slaves brought in to tend to the victor. His father had insisted, and Steven sees to it all. He calls for wine, for food, has it all displayed around the plain bath like William is a king, not a slave. 

An exquisite woman is brought as well, her hair dark amber and gleaming. But William doesn’t pay her mind. He doesn’t pay any of it mind as he enters the room and steps into the water, sits in it like it’s merely a puddle of mud. Something to endure, not enjoy. 

Steven lingers as the women scrub at his back, rusty red running from his skin into the water until it stains a faded pink. There aren’t many marks on him, but there enough. Enough that Steven loses himself to the woven pattern on skin. 

“He is clean, sir.” A woman murmurs into his ear. And for a moment, there is a question lingering. 

One he doesn’t want to answer.

The beautiful slave disrobes, stands at the edge of the bath with her eye fixed on the master of the house, and Steven watches -- sees as William continues to sit, unmoved. 

He wants to see him stand, admire him clean. But he doesn’t command anything, sitting reclined as the woman steps in the water. Each push of her feet through water brings her closer, her body soft, curved and ripe. If she were a woman of wealth, she would have men fighting for her. 

But William barely looks up when she steps near, lifts one hand to touch his curls. They hang limp around his face, the brightest Steven’s ever seen them, though they darken from water. William doesn’t move until the woman touches his face, and even then, he moves away. Recoiling, like a child struck. 

“Enough.” Steven says as firmly as his wavering voice allows, and the woman retreats. They all do, gathering their clothes.. 

Then it’s just the two of them and the sound of water lapping softly at the sides of the bath. 

“I would reward you, if you would name your prize.” Steven states gently. “There are other women, if you’d prefer—”

“Do you want to watch me fuck a slave?” William stares, eyes piercing. 

“Don’t be an ass.” Steven mutters and William blinks at him. Then grins. Startling, his smile sends a shiver down Steven’s spine. Feral, but strikingly beautiful, he grins. Runs his tongue over his front teeth. 

“You do, don’t you?” 

And, without warning, he stands. Body glistening, water sluices down his skin in rivlets, over his flat stomach. Like caramel, he gleams with strength, shining from oil. His muscles flex at his hips, down to his groin as he stands. 

Steve pulls his eyes away, but not before his mind burns from the memory of William’s body. 

“I don’t want anything—”

“You do. Say it.” William’s thighs slice through the water as he walks, waves splashing, feet smacking on the steps as he climbs. 

“I’ll send you a straw bed—”

“Look at me.” William says calmly, more gently than Steven could have imagined his voice to be. In a familiar gesture, fingers tangle in Steven’s hair, tug ever so slightly to pull his head back, bare his throat. When their eyes meet, Steven can’t help but swallow back a hard breath. 

William’s eyes  _ glow _ . 

“Tell me what you wish of me, master.” His gaze lingers, as if a ghost of a caress across Steven’s lips, his face. 

“I wish to reward you.” Steven breathes. “Please.”

“Then reward me.” William strokes a finger over Steve’s bottom lip. 

His mouth opens easily, happily, and his cheeks pink with shame. But he doesn’t recoil, doesn’t move away. With lips parted, his tongue eagerly laps at the tip of William’s finger, beckoning inside. Seeking more, seeking what he doesn’t understand. 

He’s never been with a man, not like this. As a boy, he’d had moments with friends -- curious, timid touches. Lustful things that subsided after puberty and women became easily accessible. 

But this, with William, feels nothing like the stumblings of youth. Or the greed of sex. It heats him through like fire, makes him quake. And yet they barely touch. William’s finger sits on the bed of Steven’s bottom lip, heavy and warm and unyielding. It doesn’t move, doesn’t penetrate or take. 

It merely forces their eyes to meet, bound in an endless duel. 

“Pretty.” William finally murmurs. 

And Steven blinks.


End file.
